


And A Ribbon Tied

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Arranged Marriage, Chastity Device, Fantasy, Innocence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt has been Blaine’s teacher and confidante since he was a boy.  A plague ravishes their home and Blaine is suddenly confronted with an arranged marriage and a unique sexual custom that Kurt has the job of introducing to him.  As Blaine’s nuptials loom ever closer, Kurt tries to keep their mutual attraction from growing, but he knows he’s fighting a losing battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And A Ribbon Tied

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: plot-driven orgasm denial, cock binding, age difference, brief mention of potential rape (not between Kurt and Blaine, not confirmed, and not on screen), minor character death (not Kurt or Blaine), and underage sex (not considered to be a moral issue in the world the story takes place in).
> 
> For [yanks02](http://yanks02.tumblr.com/), who is basically responsible for it because she wouldn’t shut up until I promised to write it, lol. <3

The first thing that Lord Anderson says to Kurt after the plague is declared gone is, "The Westerville delegation is set to arrive in a fortnight. Their eldest has put in a bid for Blaine's hand."

Having had a long if somewhat formal relationship with the male half of the Anderson rulers, and being well-versed in both Lima etiquette and custom, Kurt's only response to this is, "Do you wish me to keep this information from Blaine until it has been put to paper?"

It's testament to how second nature the social expectations of their country have become for Kurt that he only breathes a sigh of relief at the announcement that it is the eldest Westerville son and not the old lord himself that wants Blaine's hand in marriage. Of course, it's neither Blaine's hand nor Blaine himself that is wanted, but rather the alliance that will form as a result between Lima and Westerville once the marriage is consummated.

In a land ravaged to bare bones both in terms of land and people by a terrible disease, arranged marriages have become not only common but necessary.

The only reason that Kurt himself has not been betrothed is his obligation to see Blaine to manhood. Once that occurs, he will have to do his duty as well, he suspects, and the only question is whether it will be a political, financial, or child-bearing necessity that eventually binds him.

That Blaine's marriage is slated to be a mixture of the first two and not the last doesn't surprise Kurt; the Smythes of Westerville had managed to come through the plague with more heirs than food resources, and so, most likely, are more interested in crops and revenue than children.

"Perhaps not," Lord Anderson replies. "I'd like to meet these people in person first." He pauses to dip his quill into the squat inkwell at his right hand and then adds with a discrete clearing of his throat, "It's about time for the ribbon, though, don't you think?"

It's awkward for just one moment. Previously, Kurt has only discussed matters regarding Blaine's maturity with Lady Anderson. But he is nothing if not composed at all times, and Blaine is his charge.

"He is now ten years of age, my lord," Kurt answers. "I have not noticed any signs of--obvious change. But it wouldn't harm him if we began the ritual." 

In the most gentle way that I can possibly arrange, he adds silently.

"You are learned in such matters," is the gruff response. "See to it."

 

*

 

Blaine had been five years old when his nanny had handed him over to Kurt for his very first lessons--reading, writing, arithmetic, geography and history. He'd been a bit of a handful up until that point, but the moment that Kurt had taken him into his tiny schoolroom and sat him at his tiny wooden desk he'd become enthralled, kicking feet and high-pitched whines transforming into quiet stares and eager questions.

Kurt had patted him on the head and smiled brightly and said, "There's a good boy, now. See, it's not so difficult."

Blaine's nanny had shook her head. "I don't know what sort of magic you posses, sir, but gods bless you--I adore the little scamp, but I'm a bit too old to be chasing him about the castle day in and day out, after five of my own, I'm sure you understand."

Kurt had come by his position mostly from recommendation, and not because his skills were required to calm Blaine or attend to any truly stressful personality traits he possessed; his family and the household staff seem to love the child unconditionally, though with fond shakes of their head to indicate that sometimes he could be a bit too lovable, if he caught their meaning.

For his part, he adores Blaine from the start, from his wide-eyed curiosity to his unruly curls, but it isn't until they begin music lessons that Kurt sees the potential in Blaine for the arts. His voice displays a raspy passion that Kurt has never encountered before, and he takes to the harp like a fish to water.

Chubby fingers and round cheeks slim somewhat over time, allowing him more dexterity. He does well enough in all the other subjects but only seems truly engaged when they're playing music together, and Kurt encourages this.

Lady Anderson seems rather pleased with his lessons and their results. Lord Anderson engages the services of an armsman and an equestrian to teach Blaine combat and riding skills which he will probably never use, war being a thing of memory to most in this land. Aside from that, he only seems interested in making sure that Blaine masters the basics--being the younger son, Blaine will most likely never marry for the purpose of heirs, and in all likelihood will end up managing the family's Southern estates as is custom. 

His older brother, Cooper, is already being groomed for marriage, children, and the title that his father carries.

 

*

 

The plague devastates the country, from South to West and onward, carried by the wind to the North and East. 

It takes Kurt's father. 

He goes on sabbatical for two months after to mourn and bury him, and this time is the darkest he has ever had to endure. Coping with his own grief on top of his family's is a double blow that he has difficulty coming back from. He tries to be strong for them, but finds that, on his return journey to Lima, he has not allowed himself the time he should have to truly grieve for himself, as a son who as lost his father.

What sends him over the edge, finally, is coming home to find Blaine, then eight years old, sobbing over the grave of his nanny, clutching crushed flowers in his little hands, alone but for a page standing across the hilltop on lazy guard; he is hardly older than Blaine, and has no idea what to do to console his little lord.

The plague had been gentle on the Andersons and the Smythes, but Blaine's nanny had been with family to the West when the worst had washed over that place, and she had not survived.

Kurt, fresh from weeks of quietly grieving with distant relations, has not cried until then. But he does at the sight of young Blaine beating the burial mound with his small fists, cursing every god he can name. Tears fresh on his cheeks, Kurt sits in the dirt next to Blaine's quivering body, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Master Hummel," he cries, flinging a fistful of dirt and flowers. "It isn't fair!" They'd kept a correspondence going while he had been away, and Blaine seems to recall his manners in the blink of an eye. "I'm--I'm so sorry, sir. You lost your father and I've only lost--but she was--" Kurt knows that Blaine had spent more time at the breast of his nanny than his mother, and he isn't surprised.

"No matter," Kurt says softly, knowing that his firm tone amounts to nothing when he can't seem to stop the warm spill of tears over his cheeks. He feels as if he hasn't grieved at all until this moment, Blaine red-faced and betrayed by the world in front of him. The pain lances deep. "She loved you and you her; it is good to miss her. It is--it is right to be angry, at least for a while."

Blaine's face screws up and he sobs, throwing himself into Kurt's arms. "Please don't ever leave me, Master Hummel." He snuffles, burying his face in Kurt's throat. "I love you."

Kurt shudders and clutches the small boy to his chest. He could have just as easily come home to Blaine's tiny grave and, though his actual loss is still fathomless to him, he finds himself grateful for the fact that he had not had to face that outcome.

He cries for his father that day, finally, and for Blaine's lost innocence, and somehow the two together come more easily than they had separately.

 

*

 

"I don't like that one," Blaine says, blushing.

It is bad enough that they've had the discussion about where the ribbon must go and why and that Kurt had blushed through the entire speech and Blaine had actually giggled at him, but now Kurt has to deal with his fussing over the texture and color of the ribbon.

"You must choose your first ribbon," Kurt replies, sweating in his brocade vest as he paces the floor of Blaine's bedchamber. His soft-heeled boots turn tracks through the rushes on the floor. In front of him stands Blaine's dressing table, covered in rows of satin and silk and linen of all colors, patterns, and textures. "I must teach you the knot that your family has used for generations--"

"I don't see why it must be now," Blaine replies, bouncing off of the end of his bed. At ten years old he reaches Kurt's upper arm, all long limbs and puffy curls. He is typically not this petulant, and Kurt's patience is running thin. "I--I don't even--" He swells with embarrassment and blurts, "There is no need. It's silly."

Kurt blushes again, for the dozenth time in the last hour. It isn't that he's a prude. He has simply never had to discuss the sexual functions of body parts before, and Blaine's sexual education isn't slated to begin until his twelfth year. 

"Your father requested it," he says, finally, giving up; he's exhausted all over avenues of entreaty.

Blaine's face goes blank. "Truly?"

Kurt nods.

"Then there's a reason."

Kurt glares at him, as if to say, There is always a reason with your father; do not test my patience, child.

"Tell me," Blaine begs, breathless with curiosity.

"I can't," Kurt answers, motioning to the table. "When I can, I will. Now please, pick. You're behind in your lessons as is it."

They stare at each other for several heartbeats; Blaine knows just how far he can push before Kurt truly loses patience with him and he is not a bad child at heart. They have a sweet, easy affection between them that always takes the edge off of even the harshest of conversations, and this time is no different.

He selects a rather pretty ribbon, when it comes down to it; a deep navy blue silk with a slip of red lace up the center, on the outward side where it won't rub against the skin. It will look beautiful against his olive-toned complexion and the thatch of dark curls between his legs, Kurt thinks idly.

He clears his throat. "Very well. It's going to take all afternoon to learn the knot, and then I want you to practice tonight until you get it perfect. On yourself, mind. We might as well begin as we mean to go on."

There's a phallic-shaped wooden tool used for this lesson that is common to every tutor's possession, and it's no more embarrassing to reveal it now than the conversation about the ribbon's purpose had been.

Kurt takes several practice ribbons made of coarser material from his bag, as well. He sits on the stool in front of Blaine's dressing table and Blaine sits on the floor, reaching up for the tool and cloth. He stares up at Kurt through his eyelashes.

"Ready?" Kurt asks.

Blaine nods, bottom lip between his teeth.

 

*

 

Despite Lady Anderson's approachable nature, there is only so much informality permitted between herself and Kurt, but they do take supper together once a week--to discuss Blaine, for the most part. She enjoys hearing of the details of her son's life, even moreso because Kurt is one of only a handful of sources of this information; in their world of ancient households, closeness between parents and their children is discouraged.

It is at one of these dinners that Kurt learns of the result of the Westerville visit.

"He seems a likable enough fellow," she says, dabbing soup from the corner of her mouth. "He isn't so much older than Blaine that the spread concerns me. He's a musical child, which bodes well. At least they'll have something in common."

Kurt honestly has no opinion; as long as the boy is young and biddable and shares even one or two likes with Blaine, it's as good a match as any the Andersons might make for him. As the second son and the husband of a second son, they will enjoy a life of leisure, required only to learn land and estate management, and could even, if they so chose, enjoy separate lives of leisure if it becomes clear that they are not destined for a love match.

Having no opinion, however, is not the same as not caring. Kurt cares about Blaine's happiness very much.

"Is he a kind boy?" he asks, spearing a bite of meat. "Blaine does not understand cruelty, and I would hate to see him learn it at the hands of his future husband."

"He is sharp," she replies, "but not cruel. I think that it may be beneficial for Blaine to marry someone not exactly like himself. Too much commonality leads to boredom, as they say."

Kurt hums noncommittally. "They do say that, my lady."

 

*

 

Shortly after Blaine's twelfth birthday, Kurt begins the necessary task of teaching him about the sexual functions of his body, both in terms of his own needs and the needs of his future partner. Because he has not been given permission to tell Blaine about his betrothal, he discusses both the male and female sides, functional and reproductive, and then goes on to talk about the tradition of the ribbon, of the prevention of the first orgasm until the ceremony of betrothal.

"It isn't that orgasm is considered impure," he says. "But rather it is a custom in families like yours to suppress it until the terms of your first bonding are secured officially and publicly. Until that moment you are a blank slate; at that moment when your body becomes legally pledged to another, it is considered permission to allow the pleasures of the flesh to begin. It's a rite of passage, you see." He clears his throat. "It's an honor, Blaine."

Kurt isn't sure about that, but he is being paid to teach Blaine after a certain fashion.

Blaine, at twelve, is much more interested in this information than he had been at ten when the ribbon had first been wound around his member. Kurt knows this, though they don't speak of it; the blush at Blaine's cheek and his stunned silence is enough.

Kurt will not allow himself to consider the various times that he has heard Blaine tossing and turning and whimpering in the night in the last year or so; having the rooms next door do not allow him much ignorance, and he is all too aware of Blaine's habits to not notice the change as Blaine has grown older.

Kurt's family had not indulged in the custom, and so his knowledge of it is limited to his books and the training he received during his apprenticeship--and now Blaine's experience, of course. He tries to wallow more in the intellectual than personal curiosity. So far this has served him well.

"Will it--will it be a man?"

This is not what Kurt had expected to be asked.

"I know that I've been betrothed," Blaine says. "I know that you aren't allowed to say who, but--will it be a man?"

"Does this matter?" Kurt asks. 

Gender has no bearing on attraction or marriage in their world, and is only an issue when an arranged marriage must be made for the sake of heirs; otherwise money, politics, and business have no gender influence whatsoever.

Blaine turns a very particular shade of red; at twelve he's grown longer but not tall, his face and limbs lengthening, his hair that he'd let run wild up until recently now tamed with oil into a crown of curls about his face. He is a very odd mixture of childish laziness and too much attention paid to this or that part of his body, leaving the impression that he is not quite sure how he wants to look.

He's a boy, now, no longer a child, and Kurt struggles with that, mostly because the years are passing so quickly, and a part of him mourns for the child that Blaine once was. He'd grown attached to that child, after all, and it's not easy to accept change in the ones we love.

"N-no, I--no," Blaine answers, looking down. He's sitting at his now-adult sized desk in the schoolroom, rolling and unrolling a scroll of parchment over and over, until its bend is out of shape. 

Kurt stops, stands, and walks from his desk to Blaine's. His voice is softer when he asks again, one hand lightly braced on Blaine's shoulder, "Does it matter?"

"I would--I would prefer it if it were," Blaine whispers, face bright red and tilted down at his desk. "A man."

Oh.

Kurt gently touches Blaine's chin, tilts his head up. "Is that all?"

"Only that, for now," Blaine replies, the blush spilling down his ears and neck. 

These informal touches are nothing between them, or at least have not been until today, when Blaine's averted gaze and flushed cheeks remind Kurt that he has begun to leave childhood behind. 

"Very well," Kurt says, smiling. "Your desires matter. That is all I wanted you to know. Understood?"

Blaine nods.

 

*

 

"They don't want him until he's sixteen," Lord Anderson says.

"I'm sorry, my lord, but what exactly does that mean?"

"They don't want it announced until he's sixteen, gods damn them. They're playing for time and all the while I shall lose opportunities for Blaine elsewhere. It's a trap they're trying to draw me into; they know that our options are limited with Cooper already engaged for heirs and they want the Southern estates when they're riper, more recovered from the plague. What happens if they don't meet expectation four years hence, eh? What then? By then Blaine will be too old for bargaining with, and the estates not enough to draw offers after they've failed to recover sufficiently."

Kurt inhales, trying to find patience deep within himself. There are times when he has to accept children being pawns in their parents' political and economic games; this time he is struggling, but what can he do? He can't contradict Lord Anderson openly. He can't even advise him openly without overstepping his professional boundaries. He's no good to Blaine if he talks himself into being sent packing.

"My lord, if I may," he begins. Lord Anderson waves at him to continue. "The reports from our men in the South have been good; I'm quite sure that the harvest will return to normal well before Blaine turns sixteen. I see no reason to rush. Let them have their time to deliberate and judge; it will give Blaine time to adjust to the notion of marriage. This will benefit both families." Kurt takes a breath. "I only ask that you allow me to inform Blaine of the decision and the details. He will be better inclined to wait if he is involved in the process."

Lord Anderson stares at Kurt for several long moments, casting upon him a shrewd eye. "You know the boy well. What does he think of the idea?"

"He is not opposed to the idea of marriage, my lord." Kurt swallows to clear his throat. "He has expressed a preference for a husband, in fact."

"Has he?" Lord Anderson asks, looking thoughtful. "All the better, then. Very well. You may share what you know with him. No gossip, now. Just the facts."

Kurt smiles. "Of course, my lord."

 

*

 

It isn't long after Kurt shares this information with Blaine--including a few slightly embellished details about Lord Smythe given to him by Lady Anderson--that Blaine's behavior begins to change dramatically. 

Kurt supposes that in addition to being privy to the betrothal, it's finally that age for Blaine; thirteen and fumbling into puberty, he is a contradiction as often as he is a pleasure. He can be moody and evasive one moment and joyful and clingy the next, and he asks Kurt about his husband-to-be after every lesson. What Kurt tells him seems to satisfy him in that moment, but by the next day he is full of new questions.

He is unsettled at night, often roaming the castle and coming back to bed at strange hours, only to sleep through the morning and into the afternoon. When Kurt sternly reminds him of his curfew and schedule he stays in bed, but he doesn't sleep as he did before.

He begins forming rapidly intimate friendships with the groundskeepers and stable boys, and more than once Kurt finds him on his horse in the middle of nowhere when he should be on his way to their lessons.

Kurt is privy to only some of his new life--he keeps to himself more often than he used to and seems distracted during lessons, even musical ones, which concerns Kurt more than anything else.

He confesses these concerns to Lady Anderson who just laughs and shakes her head. "Oh, by the gods, Master Hummel," she says, "he's a boy. He'll be a terror until he's a man; I thought you would be prepared for this cataclysm?"

He has to smile at her understanding of the situation. She had been more involved with Cooper, after all; she has more experience with young boys than he does. "I suppose the memory of him as a sweet child who could be made to behave at the promise of sweets is still too fresh, my lady."

"You must be firm with him," she says. "Though you've not shared anything with me that has given me cause for concern just yet?"

"Oh, no," Kurt replies, strolling beside her through the gardens. "No, not yet. Just the usual straying of attention and a hellish shift in sleeping and eating patterns. He's been surprisingly joyful besides that, and endlessly curious about Lord Smythe."

"In a good way, I hope?"

"Yes, quite. He seems excited about the match."

"That's good to hear." She leans close, threading her arm through his. "My lord tells me that Westerville has scheduled another visit, and that the two are to be introduced."

Kurt blinks off into space, shock making his skin go cold.

 

*

 

Blaine reacts skittishly to the news. 

Their lessons are over for the day--he's slumped at his writing table, the loose, brightly colored tunic he wears billowed out around his ever-lengthening, ever-thinning frame, breeches laced tight up the sides of his legs.

Kurt sits on the edge of his teaching desk.

Blaine blushes, then huffs out a soft breath, then fusses with the hair at the back of his neck. "Will it be soon?"

"Within the month, I believe."

"I see," Blaine says, blushing. He seems to do an awful lot of that lately.

"Does this please you?"

"It--it does." He stares up at Kurt for a moment, then looks away suddenly. "It doesn't. I'm nervous, Master Hummel. What if he hates me? What if he thinks I'm atrocious?"

Kurt laughs, moving to stand behind Blaine and putting one hand on either of his shoulders. "No one could ever hate you, my dear. Your charm is without equal. And you are a good looking young man with a smart head on his shoulders. Don't fret."

"Do you think so?" the boy asks, something very intimate all of the sudden in his tone.

Kurt stares down at the head of unruly but slicked down curls beneath him. Blaine is still rather awkward, but with every passing season he grows more into the looks that he has inherited from his mother, and Kurt is sure that at sixteen he will be unequivocally lovely.

"I know so," he answers, voice breaking.

 

*

 

There comes a night when Blaine's fretting becomes too much for Kurt to ignore. 

He's beyond the usual whimpering and tossing; he's crying, and loudly. Kurt can't recall the last time he had been in range of Blaine weeping to such a terrifying degree and it shocks him so much that he's on his feet and at the door between their rooms before he even has a dressing gown settled around his shoulders.

He edges the door open just far enough to give him a view of Blaine's bed; the door is situated to offer him just such a view (tutors are often required to monitor nighttime activities, for obvious reasons, but Blaine is not that sort of young man and Kurt has never had to).

The sight that greets him, however, is anything but the expected.

Blaine is on his knees in the middle of his bed, tunic bunched up around his armpits, loose sleeping trousers are pushed down around his thighs. As Kurt watches he bends forward, face pressing into the bedding, his legs spread and his back arched. He is hard between his legs, the bright blue and red ribbon knotted tightly around the base of his cock and balls and crisscrossed all the way to the purple, shining head.

Tears stream down his face as he rocks on his knees, his hips jerking. The proud length of his bound cock taps his belly as he sobs, framed by the curve of his still-soft belly and skinny hips.

It is more than enough to freeze Kurt in place, wide-eyed and enthralled.

Kurt hears him pant, desperate and wet from his throat, "Gods, gods--" before putting a hand to himself and squeezing. It will do him no good; they both know how intricate and complete the knotting is. "Please. Please, I must--"

Kurt holds his breath. Heat pounds in his own cheeks as he watches Blaine struggle to tear his hand away and stop teasing himself. 

He's beautiful on his knees, curls tumbling over his face and the back of his neck sweaty and red from denial. His member throbs beneath him, pulses so hard from the lack of release that it bobs of its own volition, dribbling sticky fluid all over his night clothes.

The urge to rush in, soothe him, take the ribbon off of him, is momentarily overwhelming for Kurt. He flees back to his own chamber before Blaine can notice him, heart crawling up his throat.

The next morning he notices that Blaine has changed the ribbon for another, and before he can even ask himself what he's doing he's taken the one from the previous day in hand and pocketed it.

He tells himself that it's just an act of control, to check the ribbon and make sure that Blaine hadn't violated the custom. It's stiff with dried moisture but not--not enough to indicate that he had. Kurt rolls the silk between his fingers all day, and that evening just before deciding to deposit it in the laundry he brings it to his nose and inhales deeply.

It smells like sweat and musk and the soap they use on the linens. It smells like Blaine.

Shivering, he takes it back from the laundry, and after that it rarely leaves his person.

 

*

 

Blaine is fitted for new clothes for the Westerville visit, and he takes great pride in showing them off to Kurt one evening after an hour or so spent at the harp. It's rather adorable, the way that he rushes for the pieces, begging Kurt's help to get them on and then turning circles to show off every bit of stitching, every lace, every button, and every overlay of color.

The cut of these clothes is--rather masculine. It's the first time that they've tailored something for Blaine that's meant to make him look like older. The way that the shoulders and waist flare and taper suggest a frame that Blaine has not yet fully grown into, but rather accentuates the beginnings of these shapes already forming on his body.

He is painfully handsome in them.

Kurt can't help but stare, cheeks tinged pink, as Blaine turns and smooths a hand down over his backside, willing away the wrinkles in the fabric.

"Do I look much older? Sasha said so, but she always flatters me."

"You do," Kurt answers, lips moving, it feels, without the full engagement of his mind. "You look very--very handsome."

Blaine goes pink around the neck, eyelashes fluttering. "I hope Sebastian likes them. They tell me it's his favorite color."

"Oh?"

He should be pleased that Blaine is not only accepting of his arranged marriage but seems to be cautiously optimistic about it, as well.

He isn't.

The thought haunts him all the days between then and the visit, to which he has actually been invited; it is apparently going to be quite the celebration. Not an actual betrothal ceremony, of course, for the Smythes have been insistent that the deal remain unofficial until Blaine turns sixteen, but enough of an event to warrant a feast and dancing and public invitations.

It's been quite a while since the last official celebration, so the whole castle is buzzing with excitement and preparation and gossip about clothing and couplings and food. Kurt takes the time to dust off his more colorful clothing--as a tutor he's expected to dress unobtrusively and so it's nice for once to be able to wear something bright and shiny. He does love a good bauble or two.

With a guilty glance around, he transfers the navy blue and red silk ribbon from his teaching clothes to his dress clothes the night of the gathering. He isn't quite sure why he's kept it all this time; he finds that it's easier to ignore Blaine's nightly weeping when he can clutch the ribbon around his fingers and close his eyes, recalling every detail of the one time he'd allowed himself to look.

The sweat that had dotted Blaine's back. The hard, angry curve of his cock reaching for his belly, flushed dark at the head with desperate need. The begging, soft and pointless, under his breath. The way his knees had spread on the coverlet, hips wanting for something to move against.

He's hardly a boy yet, but in that moment he had seemed more like a man to Kurt than ever before. It is a dangerous observation to make, for a variety of very good reasons.

Kurt truly does not wish to sweat through his lovely jacket before he even begins dancing. He forces the thought away roughly, straightens his back, and goes to check on Blaine to make sure he isn't doing anything to mess his new clothes.

 

*

 

The Smythe boy is terribly charming. 

He's tall and lean and moves like a prince, and his sweet smiles are all for Blaine. They dance every other dance together that night amidst candle smoke and the smell of roasted meat, and in between dances they walk the borders of the floor arm in arm and chatting as is custom, hardly allowing a single dance partner to cut in.

Kurt sits with the rest of the staff not far away, eyes never leaving Blaine for long. 

He seems to be enjoying himself. He blossoms under Sebastian's attention, looking so mature in his new clothes that Kurt's heart aches for the days of scratched knees and splinters and his unruly hair free of styling, when all it took was the press of Kurt's hand at the top of his head to make him smile like that.

At the end of the evening there are a few short speeches of re-issued welcome and thanks, acknowledgement of the staff, and then the children take turns dancing with their parents. 

After that ritual is set aside the room is permitted to celebrate as it desires. Alcohol flows freely. By the time that Kurt manages to get Blaine's attention he has had more wine than he probably should have, and certainly more than he would have if Kurt had been attending him as he normally would have been during a normal celebration. 

Kurt catches him by the shoulder; he's flushed and his pupils are dark and wide.

"Kurt," he breathes, tongue made loose and informal by drink.

"Dance with me, my dear?" Kurt asks. It's expected of them to share at least one dance together tonight, and so he feels no hesitation in asking, no matter how far gone Blaine is.

"Of course," Blaine says, and allows himself to be led out onto the floor, which is more crowded now than it had been before (staff and family mingle freely, happily together now that the necessities are out of the way).

"So tell me," Kurt says, smiling, ducking low over Blaine's ear, "is it love at first sight?"

He will approach this playfully, correctly. He will not allow his conflicting feelings to ruin Blaine's evening.

Blaine laughs. His breath reeks of wine. "He's charming. Handsome." His smile goes a bit crooked. Kurt frowns at him, not understanding the change in expression, and he lies his cheek on Kurt's shoulder. "He's also in love with someone else. He wanted me to know that he wishes for us to live separate lives once we're married, and that I am free to do whatever I wish once we're settled in the South. He would like us to be friends and business partners and feels we manage this quite amicably."

Kurt's stomach falls. "Oh, Blaine. It is common enough, but--"

"It isn't what I wanted," Blaine finishes, shifting his cheek higher on Kurt's shoulder. "It's silly. But I had imagined a love match. To wait so long only to be bonded to a mere friend, I--" He shudders, and presses his face into the curve of Kurt's throat. 

Kurt holds him tighter; it's as close to an embrace as he can manage in full view of the entire castle. "We'll talk more later. I know it isn't what you wanted, but perhaps it can be made into something that you might come to enjoy when you're older. You never know the man you might become."

"Later, then," Blaine sighs, disagreement in his tone, the hand he has on Kurt's back (and when did his reach grow capable of climbing so high, so easily, Kurt wonders) tightening. "Later."

 

*

 

Later doesn't come, not precisely. 

The truth is that their relationship changes in the wake of Blaine meeting his husband to be, and in a round about way Kurt does understand why; Blaine's life is changing. Adult responsibility is dawning on him, the reality of maturity eye-opening in ways that explanations of impending expectation simply can not replicate.

He grows distant from Kurt. Their lessons become perfunctory. Lord Anderson brings in a separate tutor to begin Blaine's estate management education, and so their time is literally halved. Kurt feels adrift, sleeping in the next room but as far as he ever has been from his young student. 

At thirteen Blaine had been a handful of hormones and moods and outbursts.

At fourteen he's gone sullen again.

At fifteen he's angry all of the time, prone to long hours scribbling poetry and songs and plucking at the harp in the corner of his room alone, and then all at once he'll be off to tear across the property on his horse, coming back hours later covered in mud and looking as if he's been crying.

He grows like a weed, slimming down to a compact, small body that so reminds Kurt of his mother. At the same time he becomes a man right before Kurt's eyes; his jaw and face, his shoulders, his legs, his chest, all coming into proportion with the rest of him. His innocent gaze darkens with adult awareness.

If Kurt had found his manhood distracting, fascinating before, it is nothing to how he feels now. The gelled curls settle around around hazel eyes set in a lovely, tapered face, such a mixture of masculine shape and feminine prettiness that Kurt sometimes cannot reconcile the contrast.

 

*

 

One day Kurt looks up from his book to find Blaine staring at him. For lack of a better definition his gaze has gone--interested, in a way that Kurt has never experienced before, at least not from Blaine.

"You move so gracefully," he murmurs. "Sometimes I wonder if I will ever make these limbs obey me half as well as you have done yours."

Kurt blinks, ink-stained fingers nervously moving against one another. "Thank you, Blaine, but I assure you, you've many years of development ahead of you--and you are already much more possessed of yourself than you think." It's been a long time since Blaine has given him a compliment, and he's too excited about the possibility of something positive between them again to call out how inappropriate the observation is.

This does not seem to satisfy; Blaine continues to stare, head tilted just so, turning the cloth bookmark he has in his right hand over his fingers again and again. Kurt cannot help but become entranced by the movement; he feels his face flush as he watches Blaine's long fingers turn the bookmark over his knuckles.

"Could we try that new piece on the harp?" Blaine asks. "I'm having trouble with it." He smiles playfully. "I'm afraid I don't have a head for geography this afternoon."

It's the first time that he's asked for such a thing in a long while and Kurt wonders about it all through the instruction. 

At one point Blaine asks him to sit close and guide him through a certain measure and he finds it difficult to breathe, his arms perched over Blaine's, the warmth of the boy's body so close, the press of his fingertips just above Blaine's on the strings.

He hums along as he often does when they play and Blaine joins him, their voices blending seamlessly as their fingers move back and forth over the harp strings.

Something inside of Kurt's chest loosens; it's wonderful, making music together as they used to, Blaine's curls brushing his cheek, Blaine's shoulder turned just so against his chest. He scoots his stool closer and Blaine only pauses to smile once before continuing.

And then, in between songs, Kurt feels a tug at his vest; he looks down in horror to see Blaine's fingers gently drawing the navy blue ribbon from his pocket. It had been dangling there like a confession made manifest, and before Kurt can say anything Blaine has it in his hand.

He looks at Kurt over his shoulder. "My first."

Kurt's mouth closes. He hadn't realized that it had been gaping wide until that moment. He begins to sweat under his collar, cheeks glowing with embarrassment. Blaine is staring at him, eyes a vibrant liquid gold.

Something terrible is building between them. It's Kurt's job to stop it, only he can't.

All he can see in his mind's eye is that first blue and red ribbon coiled up the length of Blaine's cock, trapped by silk and lace knots twined so tightly, wet at the head where he had been dripping, leaving ruinous damp smears on the material. His panting, his begging, his need. Being too honorable to act on his desires.

"You should have it back, of course," Kurt whispers, hands shaking as he pulls away from Blaine. "I--I noticed you discarded it and kept it for you." He inhales unsteadily, standing, pushing the ribbon into Blaine's grasp as he backs away. "I can be rather sentimental."

This would be more convincing if Kurt could manage to tear his gaze away from the loose laces that make up the throat of Blaine's tunic, stretched open over the dip of his collarbone where faint wisps of new hair are tangled in between them. 

Just when did those shoulders grow so broad? That jaw so defined? That mouth so plump, its bottom lip like ripe fruit waiting for the press of teeth around it? When did he earn that rakish spark that now sits so comfortably in his eyes, which are moving over Kurt's body as if they know exactly what they are looking for?

And as he stares down at the ribbon in Blaine's hand, he wonders which one the boy is wearing today. He wonders how well he'd tied the knot after his morning bath, wonders if he'd been erect as he had done so, wincing and trying not to touch until it was done, until he did not have to worry about accidentally going too far and--and--

Kurt squeaks softly, stepping back. "Can you manage the piece on your own, my dear? I have something that I must attend to."

"I think so," Blaine answers, staring up at him knowingly, but also forgivingly. "Thank you, Master Hummel."

 

*

 

After that, Kurt reinforces the distance between them. 

It had been folly to think that he could ignore whatever it is that seems to be so naturally occurring between them, and he is too old to give in to such temptations, too responsible to indulge a moment's pleasure at the expense of a lifetime's devotion. His reputation, his position, his training, and his self respect are all too precious to him for that sort of behavior to be indulged.

Blaine is young, has been denied physical pleasure, and is looking forward to a sexless marriage; it is only natural that he reach for the nearest, most available object of potential desire. It is nothing to do with Kurt himself; he is just Blaine's only option. It makes sense, and therefore Kurt can dismiss it logically.

Kurt only wishes that he could see just the child that Blaine had been. 

He forces himself to recall every tantrum, every tumble, every moment of Blaine's chubby fingers and dirty cheeks, but all that happens when he attempts this is that the images morph into the young man Blaine is becoming, until it's a terrible repetitive cycle of lengthening limbs and hard muscle and plump lips, and Kurt is left aching in the middle of the day.

He has no one to speak to of this, no one removed far enough from castle life to be a safe place to unload his guilt upon. The only person even remotely resembling a friend here is Lady Anderson, and--well. That conflict is enough. He dare not put his feelings in writing, so anyone back home is also not an option. And god forbid he were to speak to the kitchen staff or the grounds keepers--word would be circulated around the castle within a day.

So he suffers in silence, unable to act.

And there is no denying Blaine's interest, not now that Kurt is aware of it. 

He's loose-limbed and wide-eyed during their lessons, paying rapt attention in ways that he has not since puberty began. He wears the tightest breeches he owns, and the loosest tunics, showing off every curve and plane of his maturing body. He keeps the ribbon that Kurt had returned to him threaded through his belt loop just at his hip, a constant reminder of Kurt's first and last heated glimpses of him.

It is known that boys who undergo the binding tradition suffer from walking around half-erect almost all of the time, and so it isn't strange to notice Blaine filling his breeches alarmingly well. But noticing takes on a different meaning after that day, and Kurt's dewy gaze lingers while his mind entertains thoughts of what it might feel like to--

Gods, he is doomed.

He knows that it's silly, and stupid. But it has been so long, and he has never loved anyone for as long or as completely as he has loved Blaine. 

It's simple to go from one thing to the next, though it shouldn't be, simple to imagine hovering over Blaine's smaller frame, taking his face in hand, kissing him until he begins to beg; in his head Kurt replays Blaine's words that night, please, please, I must, and it's altogether too much.

He retires early, often before dinner, panting and tugging the laces of his breeches open as he leans against a door just barely still in its frame from being slammed shut, his hand urgent around himself, his head thrown back.

"Oh," he moans, pulling faster, "oh, Blaine--"

 

*

 

"Sebastian is a terrible tease," Blaine announces one afternoon over lunch. They don't typically dine together, but Blaine's mother is out on business and Blaine had been a natural replacement.

"Oh dear," Kurt replies, spooning mashed turnip into his mouth. "I don't think you ought to be telling me these things, you little hellion." He tries to be casual, as he has been curious about Blaine and Sebastian's constant correspondence for a long time now. Blaine is always laughing and smiling over their letters, so Kurt knows that they must be at least a little inappropriate.

Blaine laughs. "We do have to consummate the marriage, Master Hummel, even if we choose to end it there." He shrugs. "I'm not opposed to the idea. He's--I rather like him." He blushes. "But he is no virgin, and he delights in embarrassing me as he teaches me all the things we might do together."

"Blaine," Kurt hisses. "This is highly inappropriate." They don't stand on ceremony so much so that there are servants in the room while they dine, but the walls are drafty, and there are passages behind them that the staff use constantly. Anyone could overhear them.

"I thought I could share these things with you," Blaine replies, looking wounded. "You did say so." He frowns. "Who else am I to tell?"

Of course, Kurt can't reply with the truth, which is that he had told Blaine that he would discuss anything with him and meant it, but only before he'd began imagining Blaine without his clothes on.

Still, curiosity wins out over jealousy.

"I--I did," Kurt replies, fussing with his napkin. "I apologize. Please. Tell me. Has he--has he been too brazen? Has he unsettled you in any way?"

"He is thorough in his invasion of my weakest points," Blaine drawls, cheeks glowing pink. "Almost cruelly so. But in a very playful way. He's harmless. Most of the time, I quite like the way he deals with me. It feels--honest? I suppose. He doesn't put on airs. He is--rather experienced."

Kurt swallows with difficulty, imagining Blaine bent over one of Sebastian's letters, flushed and swelling between his legs, putting a hand to himself even though he knows it's useless, just to feel the result of Sebastian's words thrill through his body.

Kurt is ashamed to admit even to himself that the thought sparks just as much lust as it does jealousy within him; he can't help himself; he has been Blaine's confidante for too long to not feel something now, when Blaine is just a little over a year away from becoming someone else's.

Sebastian will have Blaine's first experiences, no matter what any of them may want or feel. He will unwrap Blaine's cock--he will be not only allowed but expected to do so--and Blaine will most likely spill in his hand before either of them has a chance to consider it, but he is so young that he will be hard again within minutes, and perhaps then Sebastian will take him, or he Sebastian, and he will feel such pleasure--

Kurt looks away. He's been staring at Blaine's mouth this entire time. "That is very, um, very good, my dear, that you--are fond of him, it will be--it will be a good match, if not precisely the romance you had hoped for," he stutters.

Doomed, indeed.

 

*

 

Kurt arrives early one morning to their lessons, but is waylaid in the hall by a maid wanting to inquire after the health of his stepmother. He pauses to give her an answer detailed enough to satisfy her, then smiles with affection and gratitude when she slips him a piece of fresh fruit in parting.

Blaine is already inside; this isn't unusual, but something about his position in the room makes Kurt pause just outside the door, which is slightly ajar. He is rifling through the chest in the corner where they keep some of the bulkier teaching aides that they often use in their lessons. He draws from the depths of the chest the wooden rod that Kurt had used long ago to teach him how to make his family's knot. 

Kurt watches, confused, as Blaine slips the toy into his pocket. Moments later he enters the room and the lesson carries on as planned.

Curiosity gets the better of him later that night, spurred on by the fact that Blaine's sobbing has taken on a different quality. It has been years since Kurt last opened the door between their rooms but he does so now, shaking from head to toe, unable to stop himself from seeing just what Blaine has gotten up to now, and if it has anything to do with--

The last thing he expects is to find is Blaine on his back, shirtless, breeches tugged down around his knees, with the wooden tool buried to its flared base in his mouth, panting and whimpering as he suckles at it and rubs his bound cock along his belly to the same rhythm.

He has one hand down around his swollen, tied testicles even as he hungrily licks at the wooden rod, eyes closed in pleasure, belly streaked with glistening tracks of clear seed. 

After a time he seems to reach some sort of peak of tolerance--Kurt imagines there must be a limit, as he can't reach climax--and stops, letting the rod from his throat with a wet gasp. It flops to the bed; Kurt stares at it shining wetly in the candlelight for just one moment before his attention is brought back to Blaine.

On his back, half-dressed, Blaine arches; the smooth curve of his backside spilling out of his trousers tapers into the bend of his brown back. 

The hand grasping his testicles travels up the silk-robed length of his cock and he whimpers, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes when he reaches the swollen, flushed crown. He fumbles for the wooden tool with his right hand and brings it to his belly where he lines it up with his own cock, pressing the hard wood to his equally stiff prick and rutting himself against it.

Kurt can hardly draw breath, the sight is so tantalizing.

"Gods," Blaine curses, bending his knees and spreading his legs. "Just this once. Just this once, I just--damn it all." Frustrated, he tosses the tool aside and squeezes himself again.

Kurt wonders if the ribbon would even have to be fully undone for Blaine to spend all over himself right now. Breathing heavily, he digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands until it hurts, and closes the door between them.

 

*

 

"You have a dance instructor, don't you?" Kurt asks.

"Of course, but she hates me. I have it on good authority."

"Well, when you all but refuse to learn the steps as she teaches them--"

"I assure you, my modifications are purely functional," Blaine says indignantly.

"They're disrespectful and you are being a terror today, do you know that?" Kurt wheels away yet again, trying to put some space between them.

"Please? The lily dance, with a few changes, just once?" he repeats, hovering closer and closer.

"I shall lead," Kurt insists, when his ability to resist is swept away by Blaine's persistence.

Blaine's face breaks into a grin. "Very well. You're taller, anyway. I just want this to be perfect when they arrive, that's all."

Kurt's chest contracts just a little at that. They're months away from the betrothal ceremony, but Blaine has been obsessing over every aspect of it for even longer than that. He is so very excited.

He takes Blaine's hand in his, then puts his arm around Blaine's waist and begins to hum to the rhythm of the steps; they whirl into the beat experimentally for a few turns and then finally, truly begin. Kurt tightens his hold, adjusting only when Blaine introduces his altered steps.

He has to admit, at least to himself, that Blaine's changes are rather an improvement.

He smiles into Blaine's curls. "Cheeky boy. I expect if Sebastian excels at property management you might be able to enjoy a future as a dance instructor."

"Am I so simple?" Blaine asks, pressing their cheeks together.

Kurt's face grows warm despite the fact that the cheek press is part of the dance, perfectly aware that Blaine can feel it. "I wouldn't say that. It can be quite the stressful profession. Just ask your instructor; poor lamb, what she must put up with."

Blaine laughs. "I suppose I deserved that one."

"And another, I should think." Kurt grips Blaine's back and changes their direction. The boy fits so perfectly in his arms. "Just allow me some time to think on it and I'll have you blushing."

"You've already accomplished that," Blaine replies, his voice low and rough, and steps in, pressing their chests together. They grind to a halt in the middle of the dance, gazes locked.

Kurt's heart lurches painfully in his chest. "Don't tease."

Blaine's breath comes warm against his lips, and he can see the lazy dip of Blaine's eyelashes out of the corner of his eye as he stares down at Blaine's mouth. "I'm not."

Kurt shudders, digging his fingers into Blaine's shoulders. It's impossible to let go now; he's so dizzy with shivering from all of this that he fears Blaine is the only thing keeping him upright.

Eventually, though, he does manage to swing their bodies back into the dance and put Blaine at arm's length. "Don't fret, my dear. It's months away."

He isn't sure whether he's comforting Blaine or himself with those words.

 

*

 

He knows that something is terribly wrong when Lady Anderson summons him the morning of the betrothal ceremony. She has never called upon him in time to interrupt Blaine's lessons. Truth be told, she's never called upon him before noon. When he arrives he notices that she is free of attendance, and this only makes his dread double.

"My lady?" he asks, unable to hide his concern.

"Come closer," she bids, and together they huddle over her writing desk, which is as far from the servants' entrance as they can get without being on the window ledge.

"There has been an incident," she says.

"Yes?" he asks, worry fluttering in his belly.

"The Smythes arrived this morning, but without their eldest in tow," she whispers, low and fierce. "He's--he sustained an injury hunting just before the trip and died along the way here from infection."

Kurt's heart jumps into his throat. Blaine had become so friendly with the young man--this will devastate him. The pain that lances his chest at the thought of Blaine losing yet another friend is sharp indeed.

"Shall I--shall I tell your son, my lady?"

She shakes her head. "No. His father and I will see to that. Privately, as well as publicly. But Master Hummel--I am afraid that there is more. The Smythes are not willing to abandon our planned alliance. The estates are yielding above expectation and they want the bond to be made between our houses. Their manufacturing has recovered just as well as our harvest, and both my husband and I feel that at this point an alliance far outweighs--"

Kurt shakes his head, not meaning to interrupt her but doing so all the same. He isn't following.

"Lord Smythe wants to wed Blaine immediately after the betrothal ceremony," she says, trying to be clearer.

"Sebastian's father?"

Oh, by the gods. 

It is what he'd feared so many years ago when Lord Anderson had informed him of the impending combination of their houses. A fate that he had thought had been neatly avoided.

She nods. She stands straighter, eyes lingering over the open window and beyond to the land that stretches pale green and regrowing as far as the eye can see.

"Master Hummel, this is not what I wanted for my son. He is a gentle boy. Lord Smythe is old enough to be his grandfather and no suitable match for youth. But time grows short, and if this alliance isn't made both of our houses will not last; we produce the one thing that they do not produce and cannot trade for; and they the opposite for us. It must happen, and they will not leave until it has been done. We have no other children to offer. If we refuse, the offense as well as the financial loss would be unbearable."

Kurt sits upon the windowsill, staring out with wide, tear-filled eyes at the same view that his lady is taking in; he sees all of the same things as she, feels the same pain that she is feeling, and yet his first impulse is to take Blaine and run. It's illogical and emotional and all that he has in that moment. It's also impossible.

"This is what you wish me to tell him?" he asks, pain evident in his voice. It is a cruel request, and they both know it.

"He could not bear to hear this from his father, and I think he would fare no significantly better hearing it from me," she whispers, looking equally pained. "Be gentle with him. Please. You have such a gift with words. Make him understand that it needn't be--it must only be the once, and then they can carry on as he and Sebastian had planned, as partners."

Kurt thinks of Blaine's firsts. Of the hopeful, excited spark in his eyes that he'd carried, content to accept the touch of a handsome young friend if he could not know what love through the touch of another's fingertips might feel like. Of all of the waiting he has done with his cock bound in silk, for the first brush of another's hand upon his body. For physical satisfaction if not emotional. A reward for his patience and honor.

And now to be told this, on the day of the ceremony itself--

"It must be tonight?" he asks, tears in his eyes, body frozen in place.

"They fear that we'll try to spirit him away, or delay the process in some other way," she answers, twisting a writing tool between her fingers. "They might have been right, if I were a stronger person, or had seen fit to insist on alternate plans. Lord Anderson has long since accepted the need for an alliance between our two houses, but I myself had considered other families, and if I had worked harder towards strengthening those relations--"

"And what of these other houses?" Kurt asks, knowing how desperate he sounds and not caring.

"It is too late," she answers, jaw set with self-recrimination. "Lord Anderson acknowledges the truth of my advice, but agrees that we are simply out of time. The coffers are empty. We won't be able to harvest at the rate we're going, and to begin negotiations with another house now would simply take too long. We'd be ruined."

Kurt lowers his head. It's done, then, and he has his task.

 

*

 

"How long have you known?" Blaine shouts, throwing a tablet at him as soon as he enters the schoolroom.

Kurt's chest locks up with pain. He looks a fright himself, eyes red from crying in private, cheeks blotchy, his normally impeccable clothing a wrinkled mess. 

It had taken him all morning to summon the courage to come and, at some point during that time, Blaine had heard the gossip and Lady Anderson's plans were subverted. One of the kitchen girls who is very fond of Kurt had seen fit to warm him in time but, even with that, the betrayal on Blaine's face cuts deep.

"Only since this morning, my dear," he answers calmly, stepping toward the center of the room.

Blaine is crouched by the window, clothing hastily thrown on, face streaked with tears. "You lie."

"No, I do not," Kurt replies, lacing his hands in front of him. "I would never lie to you. I have often been forced to withhold information from you, but I would never lie, given the choice. Your mother told me this morning. She asked me to deliver the news to you myself, but I lingered too long because I could not bear the thought of it. I am sorry. You were supposed to hear the words from my lips. I shouldn't've waited."

Blaine sobs, flinging the object that he'd been holding for a second try at Kurt's head aside. He curls up against his knees with a twitch and rocks, shaking his head. "I liked him, Kurt. It wouldn't've been so bad, him and me, it would have been--alright, even if we'd loved others, but now--"

Kurt breathes, "He's gone. I know. And I am so sorry."

Blaine twists up on his knees, stands with a jerky push, and flings himself in Kurt's arms, beating at his chest and shoulders all the while. "I hate that you knew before I did. I hate that you didn't tell me sooner. I hate that it's all ruined and you didn't even try to--"

Kurt's breath hitches. The pain of Blaine's accusation is like knives in his flesh.

"Blaine. Blaine, be fair. What could I do?" He stands up straighter, fumbling to stop Blaine's hands from striking him, to take Blaine's face in his hands. He frantically swipes at the tears there, wanting to make them go away in the vain hope that if he can, this whole debacle will disappear with them. "I am your teacher. I cannot rule your parents, I cannot change their minds, their plans, or your family's needs. I am just one man."

But the truth is, deep down he judges himself just as, if not more, harshly than Blaine has. As a result he is nothing but pain, and skin just barely holding that pain inside, and he hates himself in this moment more than he has ever hated anything or anyone, more than hates the plague that had taken his sweet father.

He hates himself for not being able to save Blaine from this unsavory fate. For not being stronger, for not being more rebellious, for caring about rules and expectations so very much.

Blaine, eyes wide and wet, coughs on a sob and flings his arms around Kurt's neck. There is only a height difference of an inch or two between them, now, and he looks so much older with his face lined with sadness, his countenance as sad as Kurt has ever seen it.

Kurt is just on the cusp of babbling further defenses, or perhaps simply of begging for Blaine's forgiveness, when Blaine surges forward and kisses him. Their mouths crush together, full of spit and tears, and Kurt hisses in a breath just as Blaine exhales one harshly. It is less a kiss and more a desperate, hasty physical bid for connection, but it is a kiss all the same, and their very first.

Kurt breathes out. The space between his ears goes fuzzy with white noise. 

Blaine's mouth is on his.

Oh.

Oh.

"I hate you," Blaine growls, kissing him again. "I--I would not have known or even cared if it hadn't been for you." He kisses Kurt again, and again, and all Kurt can do is gasp and let him. "If it hadn't been for the way you make me feel, for the things you make me want." Blaine tears at his tunic, trying to get at the laces and failing; the knots just grow tighter. He snarls in frustration, hands flying upward, and Kurt takes his wrists in hand and holds them still.

"You don't hate me," Kurt says, holding them apart. "I am a blank canvas upon which you fling misplaced desires, only to watch them splatter and drip and form no meaningful image. That is all. You are compromised, and full of grief--"

"Do you not think that I haven't had the opportunity? I could've--" Blaine pants, wrenches away so quickly that Kurt's wrists twinge with the pull. He is not done being angry. "I could have given myself to any one of them, at any time. I could have taken this blasted ribbon off and no one would have known."

Kurt closes his eyes. Blaine's words are like poison, making his whole body hurt with acidic irreverence.

"Hours in the kitchens, the stables, the fields, the forest--dozens of boys and girls willing, ready, and able, but every day I came back to you, hoping even though I knew it was pointless that one day--one day all of the honorable choices would be worth it, that I would find my marriage bed and feel something. And that maybe when the obligation was satisfied and I didn't have to wear this gods damned thing between my legs, that you would look at me with something other than scholarly interest." His eyes go soft for just a moment. "That you would see that I have wanted you for my own for as long as you have been in my life, though I did not understand what that could mean until now."

Kurt chases his suddenly absent breath, trying not to think of watching Blaine in the dark, of longing for him for years. I have wanted you since before I should have allowed such thoughts, he thinks, eyes brimming with tears.

"And now a man old enough to have sired my own sire is going to have me--tonight!--and all of this has been for nothing," Blaine finishes, gesturing wildly, turning in the center of the room.

Kurt can't deny that Blaine is right about one thing; all of the trappings of their relationship and Kurt's internal protest against allowing it to change with Blaine's maturity mean so little now that it's come to this unfortunate end. 

He cannot for the life of him think of a reason to hold back his feelings any longer. Blaine is suffering and will suffer further before this is over, and all Kurt can do now is confess in the hopes that something good will come of his honesty.

It is the only pure virtue that he has left to offer. It is all that matters.

"I watched you," he says into the thick, painful silence between them.

Blaine stares at him, eyes going wide. "What?"

"Once, just after the ribboning. And again several years later. I heard you crying and I--I went to the door and I watched you." He swallows, eyes downcast from shame. "I watched you in the dim light, watched you writhe and beg for release that you couldn't have. That you wouldn't take." Blaine's face goes blotchy. He steps closer, anger draining from his face. "I dreamed of what it might be like to give you that release. I could have sneaked into your bed any night of any week of any month of any year and taken that from you, from your sweet, young body. My thoughts were haunted with images of you in my hand, my mouth, my body, or mine in yours. When you came of age it was no less than torment, because I could feel how much you wanted me in return, though you had no way of understanding that desire then." He inhales, pulse pounding violently at his throat; saying the words aloud makes his body vibrate with desire. "Blaine, I have loved you in one way or another since the moment you came under my tutelage, and still I have failed you. Whatever you ask of me now, I will do." He steps forward and before he can even consider the consequences, he falls to his knees in front of his student. "I will do anything."

Blaine stares down in utter shock at Kurt, trembling like a leaf before him, but there's also a sudden, feverish clarity blossoming in his eyes. It's frightening to observe.

He knows what he wants. He knows what must be done. These things are not exclusive of one another, not if they take the opportunity hovering precariously between them in this moment.

"Take me," he whispers, sliding his fingers into Kurt's hair, tipping Kurt's face up toward his own. "I don't want him to be my first."

Kurt exhales, burying his face against Blaine's belly. "Yes, my love. Yes."

 

*

 

Sasha finds them like this, and it is a testament to her love of Blaine that all she does is interrupt them with a soft clearing of her throat. Her polite beckon to Blaine to come is answered almost immediately; such relationships are a balance of give and take, and they are both beginning to learn how to play that game.

Kurt knows that Blaine has last minute preparations to attend to and an audience with his mother and father that has to be completed before the celebration begins. 

There will be no public wedding just yet; the betrothal announcement will be followed by a private civil ceremony and, once the marriage is consummated, they will publicly announce the engagement. All that matters is that the marriage legalize the co-ownership of the Southern estates as of tonight. The public can enjoy a fantastic wedding celebration later.

Blaine will have the span of only a few hours before the ceremony begins to prepare, and for the first time in his life Kurt finds himself acting covertly on the friendships that he has developed with the staff, making sure that his chambers are ready to spirit Blaine away to. 

He doesn't need to give them reasons for his strange requests, doesn't have to explain why he's requesting that the second set of Blaine's ceremonial clothes be sent to his rooms, or why he's dismissing the servants for the evening, or why he's asked for a hamper of food to be sent up when a massive feast is being prepared below--it pains him to take advantage of their trust, but he can't afford to hesitate now. 

He sends word through Sasha to Blaine to meet him as soon as he's done with his parents, and that is the last; it's all arranged, and Blaine can come to him as he wishes to or not, if time and the sobering presence of Lord and Lady Anderson have changed his mind.

Waiting becomes a torment, so Kurt takes a turn around the interior garden, letting the clean air of dusk knock loose the tangled webs from his mind. 

After that, everything becomes as transparent as new glass. 

He stands there amongst the trees and herbs, inhaling deeply and thinking only of Blaine. His sweet boy, teetering on the cusp of violent manhood, wanting him as much as he is wanted in return. He wonders how he ever managed to convince himself that any other outcome but this one could exist for them.

 

*

 

He'd expected to get back to his rooms ahead of Blaine, as his walk had been brief, but this isn't the case.

His rooms are by no means sparse. They are, of course, not as luxurious as Blaine's, but for a tutor's chambers are generously appointed; he is possessed of a wide hearth, a large bed, plenty of insulation, good solid furniture, excellent morning light and very little moisture to disturb his books and papers.

The only thing that these rooms have ever lacked is a beautiful young man at the center of his bed and tonight, that has changed.

Blaine is kneeling atop the blankets wearing only a knee-length tunic of brilliant red, his hair a riot of curls tumbling over his forehead and ears. The tunic is bunched up around his thighs, and his bound cock juts proudly from under of the hem of the garment. He's caged with the navy blue ribbon with the red lacing. The knot has been carefully tied, ending in a perfect cross just under the bow of the crown of him. He's hard as stone, stretching the satin to its limit. His head is slightly bowed, just enough so Kurt can see that the back of his neck is almost as red as the tunic he wears.

When Kurt closes the door behind him and Blaine looks up, he understands for the very first time in his life what people say about the world grinding to a halt around lovers.

Blaine is the most beautiful thing that he has ever seen, and he cannot in that moment remember wanting anything or anyone so badly, with such a sense of grasping, crazed permanence, as if he has arrived at his journey's end and all of the toil and loss and sacrifice along the way has been worth it and more.

He shudders, stepping to the edge of the bed, as Blaine's round honey-hazel eyes find his.

He's wearing the bright blue and pink striped vest that Blaine always compliments when Kurt wears it to lessons, cinched tight at the waist with fitted doeskin trousers that hug his legs all the way down to a pair of glossy leather boots. 

He reaches up, self-consciously touching the bundle of pale cloth that's tucked into his collar. He gently tugs it side to side and pulls it from around his neck, using it to dab sweat off of his face before letting it drop to the floor.

"You're well prepared," Blaine says, voice raspy. "The food, the change of clothes, sending the night servants away--I wouldn't've thought of those things, at least not in my current state. I'd already ruined the frippery they dressed me in taking it off in such a rush."

"Have I taught you something, then?" Kurt asks, a loving smile spreading his lips wide.

"I do hope that's the beginning of the lesson and not the end," Blaine counters impishly, kneeling up. 

The tunic falls around his body; the strong jut of his cock tents the material in a way that would be obscene if he were not so innocent, and if Kurt were not so hungry for him.

"How long do we have, my dear?" Kurt asks, kneeling on the bed.

"Two hours, at best." Their eyes meet again.

"A lifetime would not be enough time for me to show you how much I love and desire you," Kurt breathes, reaching out a hand to cup Blaine's warm cheek. "Two hours suffices only if all I am allowed to do is look upon you to my satisfaction."

Blaine's mouth parts softly. He puts a trembling hand over Kurt's to steady it against his face. "But two hours must suffice for what I want to share with you. I am untouched and bound." He licks his chapped lips and leans closer, letting their nose tips brush. "And I am yours. No matter who else touches my body tonight, that will not change."

Kurt holds back the whimper that rises in his throat, along with the threat of tears behind his eyes. He closes the distance between their lips; this sip is just as sweet as the first had been hours ago, perhaps even sweeter with the removal of the bitter note of Blaine's anger. 

Blaine whimpers against his lips and parts his own and Kurt surges forward, filling that warm cavern with his tongue.

The level of urgency takes Kurt by surprise. He'd imagined--or projected hopefully, he supposes--that as besotted as he is he would still be able to play the role of the older, mature lover. But the moment their lips begin to suckle and taste each other he is lost, his fingers eager in Blaine's curls and Blaine's hands pawing frantically down his back.

He won't draw Blaine close for fear of crushing Blaine's cock between their bodies; he is rather sure that after almost six years of denial, Blaine has reached dangerous levels of discomfort.

He draws them apart with a wet smack and Blaine whimpers, reaching for him again. "No. No, don't stop." His mouth is cherry red and glistening.

"Let me," Kurt whispers, plucking the strings of Blaine's tunic undone. 

This Blaine is all too happy to allow. He shivers when Blaine lifts his arms, allowing him to remove the garment. The motion leaves his curls bobbing on end and even more disheveled than before. Kurt smiles, turns his face into them and breathes deep.

The naked brown skin of Blaine's body is literally something out of a dream for Kurt, who has had nothing but fantasy to tip him over the edge for years now.

"You are so beautiful," he murmurs, blazing a trail of warm, wet kisses from Blaine's temple to his collarbone, taking a detour across Blaine's throat as he travels. 

He holds Blaine close, touching him everywhere that his fingers can reach; his strong arms, his wide shoulders, his broad chest and tapered waist. He grasps Blaine by the hips, finally, tonguing one nipple wet and then the other, until Blaine is whimpering and bending into him.

"Kurt," Blaine moans.

"Oh, the sound of that," Kurt replies, kissing him again.

Blaine tugs him backward until they spill amongst the pillows, Kurt straddling Blaine's left leg and holding himself up over his body as they kiss. Blaine's right leg hooks around his.

"Please," Blaine begs, eyes rolling back in his head as their bellies grind together. "Oh, please, touch me."

"I have a very specific desire in mind," Kurt drawls, dragging his mouth down Blaine's chest. He pauses only briefly to reshape his nipples to pebbled nubs, then licks across his goosefleshed ribs to the quivering, concave dip of his belly. "I must have your permission first."

Blaine tosses, thighs spreading wide. "Anything. Just don't stop."

"I have dreamed of unraveling you," Kurt continues, breathing hot, damp kisses in broad circles all across Blaine's hips. "Dreamed of peeling back the satin from your aching cock, of dropping a kiss on the head and feeling you soak my lips with your seed from nothing more than that." He tugs at the line of hair that runs from Blaine's navel to his groin with his teeth.

"Your fantasy may become a reality," Blaine gasps as Kurt continues to kiss his thighs and calves and hips, avoiding the one place where he needs attention the most. "If you continue on like this."

"As long as I have time to wrap my lips around you and swallow every drop of you down, I will not mind," Kurt murmurs huskily, nuzzling his face into the thatch of wiry curls around the base of Blaine's cock. 

The ribbons is beautiful around him, but Kurt's fingers itch to tug the knots that hold it in place free.

"On one of the nights that I watched you," he says, licking tracks around Blaine's heavy sac, "you had gotten a hold of the training rod for knot practice."

Blaine gasps, hips straining. He's beginning to lose his grasp on sense, and Kurt can tell. "Kurt."

"I found you sucking at it like a starving babe finally mat its mother's breast. The desire to replace that silly thing with myself was so strong that I had to lock myself in my room that night to stop myself."

"Oh," Blaine whimpers, hands twisting in the coverlet. "Please. Oh, please." He licks over his open, trembling mouth. "I would have let you. I would have begged you for it."

Kurt feels driven entirely by his lust, and spurred on wildly by Blaine's words and needs; he lifts Blaine's hips and pushes his legs upward, encouraging them over his shoulders as he licks wet stripes all over Blaine's testicles, soaking--ruining--the silk with his spit, and tipping them out of the way.

Blaine's clenching, dusky entrance quivers just once before Kurt drags his tongue over it.

"Gods," Blaine hisses, fingers flailing for purchase in Kurt's hair. "Oh yes kiss me there, I've dreamed--"

It's all Kurt can do to limit the time he spends between those lush cheeks, hungrily tasting Blaine's tangy flesh, his tongue circling harder and harder, until Blaine's rim gives way. He only does it once or twice, this dipping inside, unwilling to deny the pleasure of that to other parts of his anatomy.

"That felt," Blaine breathes, going limp, "for a moment I forgot about--"

"You've discovered my purpose." Kurt nudges his nose against the swollen, firm globes of Blaine's sac, reveling in the pleasure of being there between those firm thighs, finally able to taste and smell and touch to his satisfaction.

It has been a long wait, and he's delayed long enough.

There are three sets of knots in the binding; one under the testicles, one midway up the shaft, and one just under the crown. Kurt begins at the top, using the very edge of his fingernails and the pads of his fingertips to pluck the satin loose. Blaine is so sensitive that he must be careful not to cause any pain along the way.

"So lovely," he breathes, watching the stained, dark silk give way. Blaine's cock is purple at the head from denial and shockingly red along the shaft, striped pale where the ribbon has cut tightly across the skin and darker where it has been less restrictive. "So perfect."

Blaine whines and thrashes, beyond words as the silk falls away from the length of his member.

Kurt can't bring himself to do anything but stare as the second knot comes undone and, finally, the third, Blaine's hair-dusted sac falling softly between his legs as it's released, its defined shape of two becoming more one without the structure of the ribbon holding them apart.

He's a trembling, sweating, breathless wreck on the bed, to the point where Kurt does not think he's even capable of controlling himself any longer. He's going to come from nothing more than the air on his skin, and soon, whether Kurt touches him or not.

"Wh-what--what was your--desire?" he sobs.

"To hold you deep in my mouth and take your first rush from you. To know that no one else will ever have that pleasure but myself," Kurt answers, breathing warm along the shaft of Blaine's pulsing cock.

"K-Kurt," Blaine cries.

"I know, my love," Kurt drawls, drawing close and dragging the tip of his tongue up the veined, swollen shaft. "It won't last but a moment, and I don't mind in the slightest. Let me give you the release you've waited for."

"Yes," Blaine gasps. "Yes, yes, yes--"

He uses the last bit of his restraint to tug the ruined ribbon free of Blaine's body, tossing it aside. He allows himself a single, lush lick around the engorged head before he swallows downward, easing his mouth over and around Blaine's cock until thick curls brush his cheeks.

Blaine literally screams, just once, his right hand gripping Kurt's hair in a painful hold, his left shoved hastily between his teeth, and that is all it takes for him to fall apart; his hips rise off the bed, body wracked with spasms as he spills down Kurt's throat for so long that Kurt loses track of the volume of what Blaine gives him. He just keeps swallowing, mouthful after mouthful of thin, salty seed washing down his throat. 

Finally, there is a pause. He catches his breath, licks his lips to chase the long-awaited flavor, and then wraps his mouth around Blaine again.

"More," Blaine whimpers, squirming. "Please, more, I feel as if--oh, your mouth, Kurt--"

Kurt hums softly. Blaine is still hard and a moment later Kurt begins to tease a shorter, gentler round of gushes from the tip of him, taking his time to lick and suck to his heart's content, until Blaine begins to soften. Even then Kurt remains, tonguing the smooth flesh in and around the area until Blaine's hand has gone slack in his hair and his body become a dead weight on the bed.

"Mmm," he breathes out.

He looks like a physical representation of sin itself, bronzed and youthful and spent, spread out in front of Kurt for the taking. Kurt is throbbing for him.

Blaine stares at him, eyes slitted and dark. "I never thought it would feel like this."

Kurt crawls along his body, beyond wit now, and settles over his chest, kissing him into the pillows until he is gasping and writhing again. "I love you."

"Will you--will you press up inside of me, now?" Blaine asks hazily, wrapping his legs around Kurt's waist. "Please. Make me feel you. I want to feel you all night, even when--"

"Shh," Kurt says, sitting up on his knees and undoing the buttons on his vest. "Help me."

The task makes Blaine forget what he'd been about to say and, though they rush Kurt's disrobing against a backdrop of hushed panting and the rustle of bedclothes, Kurt manages to get out of his vest, shirt, breeches and boots without destroying anything in the process.

Blaine stares up at him, eyes swollen with unshed tears. "You are--stunning. So pale, so smooth." He whimpers, leaning up on his elbows to gather Kurt close, to scatter kisses all over his skin. "So many days I spent at that desk, undressing you with my eyes, wondering what you would look like." He bites and kisses, burying himself against Kurt's throat, shoulder, chest, and arms, shaking all the while.

Kurt fumbles for the oil he'd left near the pillows. 

They're running out of time, and no matter how much he'd like to take Blaine apart bit by bit, they must leave time for Blaine to make himself presentable again or this will have all been for nothing.

Blaine begins to pant again at the sight of the bottle, grabs for it and clutches it somewhere between them as he continues kissing Kurt, lashing deep into Kurt's mouth with his tongue and pulling away only when Kurt pushes him gently back against the pillows once more.

He goes still. Kurt presses his thighs apart and slides farther between them, eyes blazing green in the torchlight as he pops the cork on the oil bottle and drizzles some into his palm.

"You've never...?" He must ask.

"No."

"Not so much as your own finger?" he asks, drawing the curve of his cock against Blaine's hip, allowing the boy feel what he is about to have buried inside of him.

Blaine moans. "N-no, not even that."

"Oh, my love," Kurt breathes, turning his face away for long enough to collect himself. "Would you like my fingers first?" He knows that he could skip that step without hurting Blaine, so long as he's careful with the oil and his pacing, but it will burn for longer and be over faster.

"Not tonight," Blaine answers, voice trembling with desire. "Tonight, I want to know what it means to feel you inside of me. I want to feel you there long after you've gone. Use me well. Leave nothing for him." His eyes burn with near-fanatical intent.

Kurt inhales shakily, drawing the handful of oil down and over himself. He retrieves another and curls his fingers between Blaine's cheeks, ignoring the soft gasp of surprise as the oil goes warm over Blaine's skin.

"Sweet boy," Kurt breathes, folding Blaine's knees over his shoulders. "Look at me."

"Please, we haven't much time," Blaine says, fingers scrabbling over Kurt's bare, sweaty back and shoulders, ending yet again in the tangle of his hair. "Don't deny me this."

"Never," Kurt whispers, pressing his face into the curve of Blaine's throat, kissing the thrumming pulse he finds there there until it's slowed down somewhat. "Give me your hands." He tangles their fingers and slides Blaine's arms above his head, bending them, pressing them down beneath his own. He kisses Blaine's lips softly, then draws back just enough to stare into his eyes as he guides the head of his cock inside of Blaine's body. "Bear down, love."

"Oh, gods, yes," Blaine hisses.

He feels Blaine's heels dig into his back as he bottoms out, shuddering and releasing a pent-up breath. Warm, tight heat envelops him like a glove cut just to fit him. Blaine's eyes are wide with shock and not a little discomfort.

"Shhh," Kurt hisses, pressing their lips together.

"Big," Blaine whimpers.

"Breathe out with me," Kurt whispers, pressing his face into Blaine's sweaty curls. "It will pass."

"K-Kurt. I can feel you, so deeply--"

"Yes, that's it--"

"Oh, please, move."

"So perfect for me, my dear, so tight," Kurt breathes, rocking softly into him, feeling his warm, slick channel give way. "Let me all the way inside of you; want you to remember this always."

"I will," Blaine gasps. "Always. Always, oh."

It doesn't last long. Kurt can't feel shame at that, as it is simply too much; he can't help but lose himself to the extreme clasp of Blaine's untouched body, but most of all he is undone by gratitude that Blaine had wanted to share himself with Kurt this completely. Kurt shudders apart like a boy, too soon and too roughly, gasping out shock against Blaine's sweaty shoulder as he spills deep inside of him, riding him hard into the bedclothes.

He comes back to himself several delirious moments later, his cheek a damp smear against Blaine's chest, their bodies still entwined.

"Stay," Blaine begs, "just a moment longer. I practiced with the damned outfit; it shouldn't take too long to manage. I am much better at putting it on than taking it off, I promise."

Kurt laughs weakly, eyelids fluttering. "You feel too good to retreat from so soon." There is a long, pregnant pause as they savor one another, and then Kurt has to ask, "Will you be alright?"

"You have brought my body beyond the borders of contentment. Even if I loathe him completely I will simply close my eyes and find you instead." His eyes go soft again. "I will hold your seed inside of me, as a barrier against his."

Kurt can't bring himself to feel jealousy in this moment. He knows that he will later but for now Blaine's words are more than enough to satisfy him, and the goal ahead of them to make Blaine ready for his evening will be more than enough to distract him until Blaine is out of sight.

They both have roles to play today, and if carrying out those roles flawlessly is what must be done to ensure that they may be together tomorrow and every tomorrow after that, Kurt knows that they are both more than up to the task.

They kiss and cuddle for a short while, sighing into each other's skin until there is no time left. Declarations of love fall as had sweat droplets between them, peppered and haphazard. 

Finally, Blaine is cleaning off with a damp towel at the water basin and Kurt is arranging his change of clothes.

"You made your excuses already?" Blaine asks, drying off.

"Yes, I claimed sickness. With the memory of the plague so fresh, no one will object to my staying upstairs tonight. And I've plenty of food in the hamper, do not worry." He pauses, standing there with his trousers lazily tugged up around his hips. "Does it upset you that I won't be there?" He begins helping Blaine into his outfit.

"I wouldn't want you to be," Blaine answers, buttoning and tying as each piece is layered onto his body. "As far as I am concerned I have had my wedding night, and I do not need you to see anything else of me until I have fulfilled my duty and come back to you a free man."

Kurt sighs. "My dear, even with that done, we must be discreet. Until you've established your household in the South--dallying outside of the marriage bed under your father's roof, and in a blatant fashion no less, is still a risk--"

"I'm a young fool in love, Master Hummel, not your average idiot," Blaine says, smiling, kissing Kurt's worried little frown. "Besides. Mother knows. And that's all the approval I require."

"She--what?"

"I told her earlier. I could not go on without telling her. I hope you'll forgive me for not consulting with you first on the matter."

Kurt lifts Blaine's jaw, thumbing a gentle path along its slope. "I assume that, as I have not been tossed out on my ear, she does not see a conflict?"

"She reminded me to be discreet just as you have. Other than that, she seemed--actually rather pleased."

"You're in trouble for this, when I've the time and presence of mind to keep track once more," Kurt announces, smacking a kiss against the side of Blaine's head. "I shall perhaps even make you write lines."

"When we've the time, I will happily acquiesce to anything you request of me," Blaine replies with a saucy grin, smoothing his jacket over his shoulders.

 

*

 

**Epilogue**

 

No one questions it when Lord Blaine Anderson and his husband Lord Walter Smythe move to their renovated Southern estate to oversea the harvest that year and Lord Anderson's tutor moves with them. It's hardly a scandal, as there are only a few individuals who are privileged enough to be aware of the special bond between the two men.

When Lord Walter passes naturally of old age ten years later, after a lavish funeral in the North, of course, a delegation arrives from Westerville to appoint a new Smythe representative to take charge of the family's interests in the South.

Marriage had transformed the two houses into one, technically speaking, and so a second marriage is not required; the Smythes leave behind a young woman named Melody to oversee the business end of things, and this satisfies the bargain.

She has no interest in marriage and besides that there is no call for it, as the Anderson/Smythe bonding had not been made for heirs. She and Blaine become fast friends, and it's not uncommon for the pair to be seen dining late into the evening with Blaine's tutor, who has not strayed far from Blaine's side since moving South.

Not long after the mourning period passes, whispers of a band of silver around Blaine's right wrist, matching one worn by his tutor, run like wildfire through the staff and, eventually, make their way back to the family holdings in the North, where Lord Anderson's mother--a widow now, stooped and not as keen-eyed as she used to be but as smart as ever she was--bends over the letter with a laugh and a shake of her graying curls.

She has at her left hand a small stack of letters from her son and his tutor, telling of he and Kurt's quiet, private marriage ceremony. At her right hand she has a short pile of hastily penned brevity from her people working in the kitchens there. When compared to the ten odd pages of excruciating detail given to her by Blaine and Kurt, these supposedly "detailed" missives are a downright boring disappointment.

She smiles at her son's letters, taking a deep, satisfied breath as she supposes that, in the future, she'll just have to hire better spies; after all, she has a reputation to protect.


End file.
